When Caspians Attack: Part 2
“Home-base, Strike Alpha has breached the Nest." the commando lead calls across his vox, receiving acknowledgement from command as he gestures to two men across from him. Wordless signals ordering them to take the landings one by one. The first of the pair pitches forward over the hand rail, carbine sweeping the stairwell and with the absence of exchanged fire, his comrade sweeps forward, securing the landing and onward they go, leap-frogging in a precise, well practiced manner. Ten marines remain, battling it out in the lobby, trying to maintain their position of barricade in entrance to either ground-level corridor. It's a terrible situation they face. Those raised on values which protect civilians must now kill, or be killed, as it's evident that the anti-foreigner rioters are not going to be chased off by stun blasts, grenades, or vocal threats. And to strike them down? Well, that just fuels the inferno. Nodding understanding of the Ambassador's command, the leader stationed in the residency corridor taps shoulders of comrades. "Fall back!" And so they begin, while their charge races ahead to the last remaining safe zone. Her suite. Almost there...cutting past the stairwell, Ambrosia skids to a stop, head cocked aside for a moment's listen. Noise from the landing above? Maybe? Finding it a fool's errand to waste time investigating THAT, she cuts right and slaps a sweaty palm onto the bio-scanner of her quarters. Her right hand retains a firm grip on her blaster, set to kill. As the strike team nears the ground floor, the raging battle echos through the doorway. They line up for a textbook 'hard breach'; three men to the left, four to the right, two more hold the stairwell against a rear action. A loud crash sees the door smashed open by a solid kick, the point man stepping back to regain his balance the commandos storm forward. The first breaks left into the residency corridor, hot on Ambrosia's heels, the second moving forward to block off the retreating marines - each man files in until they've achieved a division, five soldiers taking up covered firing positions, trapping the marines between their carbines and the tide of enraged protesters, the remainder double-timing toward the ambassador's personal rooms. "AHHH COME ON!!!" Ambrosia seethes, glancing frantically over her shoulder as startled cries of her crew reach her ears. That can't be good. Nor can boot-thumps. No one likes the sound of boot-thumps. "Good evening, Ambassador," the security monitor chirps. "Biometric pheromone readings indicate stress level high. Request medical staff?" "NO!" The 'madame' Ambassador screams at the state-of-the-art piece of crap. "JUST OPEN THE-" "Very well." As the door's inner mechanisms unlock and it slides open, Ambrosia fires a shot or two blindly behind her while squeezing impatiently through. She slams the 'close' button with her elbow haphazardly on her scramble inside, through the living quarters, towards the bedroom. The NR marines are basically screwed. Choosing to do one last thing right before they die, those facing the crowd whip around and return fire over the shoulders of their staggering/wounded/dying comrades. __________________________________________________________________________________ Ambassador '''''Aderanne's Quarters Once you clear ''past the security doors, a warm, comfortable atmosphere surrounds you. Recorded sounds of rain and nature play faintly in the background from an unseen source. The floor is a slick, marble tile, decorated here and there with thick, earth-toned rugs woven from ropes of some sort of animal hair. The walls are bordered with deep, clay red, off-setting the pale, soothing walls. A few potted plants are scatterd around the living area that lies ahead of you, filling the air with a subtle, floral note. In the leftmost corner is a small kitchenette, containing the basic cold storage, washing and cooking units, and a little counter space on which to work. '' ''Directly ahead, a ''few sleek, wooden chairs continue the Caspian, natural theme of the room, positioned across a rather plush, buff-colored couch for easy conversation. To your right is a small hallway that leads to a modest bath/bedroom combo with decor matching the living space, with more efficiently designed furniture - molded from the walls, aside from the low bed with pale, blue sheets. In the bedroom there is also a small fountain with stone lining and a few fish. '' ''One of the ''bedroom walls houses a secretive door, beside the fresher mirror. Inside is a smaller room that's without a doubt serving as a child's residence. Gunmetal gray walls, painted to resemble bulkheads are outfitted with bits and pieces of scrapped (but polished and prettied up) fighter-unit consoles and nav systems. Some monitor displays actually light up and one has been modified to function as a holoterm. A small bed is nestled in one corner inside a halved, pod-like encasement. Shelves are built into the other half, storing toys and clothes. Various Republic spaceship models hang from the ceiling. ___________________________________________________________________________________ The firefight between the marines and the Imperial commandos is brutally, pitilessly one-sided. Blaster fire screams back and forth, echoing off the walls. The air fills with a thick white smoke as tibanna gas vents from their weapons. The men of the Republic meet their ends well; on their feet, unbowed, and unbroken. But it is a slaughter none the less. Over the fifteen or so seconds that follow, one by one they fall., rifles clattering to the floor alongside the smoking bodies of the best-of-the-best. "Get this door open!" the commando-lead orders, gesturing to the security door, its bio-metric scanners offering no hope of legitimate entry. One of the black-suited men dashes forward, forcefully ripping the panel from the wall he works to short the system into opening the door as the remainder of the sub-team take up staggered defensive positions in the accommodation corridor. Enemy at the door. Listening to their 'claws' scrabbling away to disarm the one thing in this building she'd be happy to see go, Ambrosia slumps for a moment's breath against the sofa. It's hard coming, adrenaline pumped so high that her racing heart threatens to out compete her poor lungs. Casting a final look of longing towards her daughter's safe room, the woman wrestles with the sense of acceptance that she is out of time. Better to end this here, now, than be caught ass-end up in an escape tunnel out to the yard, which - if memory of the last five minutes serves her correctly - is on fire. Tears of hatred shimmer across her graying cheeks and she stalks over to her desk. Resetting her desktop holoterm to broadcast one, last time, she peers into the haze of its recorder. "I warned of the hazards that falsehoods can bring about, did I not?" Voice bitter and gaze less than forgiving, she addresses whatever member of NR command might receive this first. "You find my daughter. You collect her and the Jedi. You take them far, far away from here. That much, you OWE ME." It is done. She leaves it recording and turns to face the doorway. Knowing well what's about to come and possessing one ounce of control to avoid *some* unpleasantness, Ambrosia reaches to her ears and deactivates the small nodes implanted at the base of each. She then crouches behind the desk and steadies her trembling arms to aim the DD6 towards the door. The low grumbling complaints of the storm-commando fiddling with wires are not encouraging. "Ambrosia Delgard!" their leader barks through the door, vocoder amplifying the sound - unaware of the Ambassador's deactivated hearing aids. "We have your daughter!" a brazen lie. "Surrender now, or she dies!" No response. Is she so cold? Is she calling their bluff? Is she already dead? "GET THIS DOOR OPEN!!!" the commander barks again, moments before a sharp snap and a puff of smoke rises from the torn wires, shorting out the door locks. Muffled hums of noise, like an angry hive, is all the holed-up diplomat hears now. Blinking the sweat from her eyes, she works to calm her breathing. Slow in...slow out. Slow in...slow out. What was it she always told Gabi? Think about what you learned in school that day. People are idiots? Cowards can't be saved? Feats of engineering are lacking? NOT helping. Exhaling forcefully, she narrows her eyes, pooling all her loathing, her fear, her anxiety into the focus needed to simply pull the trigger, and do it right. Momma bear's pissed, and she's about to roar. The door opens abruptly, control over it yielded the instant they tore off the panel it catches the commandos before they were ready and the technician who'd hot-wired the security is the first in the line of fire. The sharp scream of a blaster bolt catches him square in the chest, the powerful bolt blasting him clear off his feet, a smoking hole burned in his chest. Their commander whirls back, slamming to the wall beside the door as the men up the corridor turn toward the sound of fire. "Set for stun!" the leader commands, two men nearest the door breaking off from securing their aft to take up position ready to breach the guarded doorway. Back in the main entrance, with the uniformed Marines slain by the commandos hands, are left alone, having wisely began cries of 'Caspar!' and 'Olum Osahn!'. The mob turning its attention to smashing furnishings, artwork and computer terminals - pouring out their hotly stoked rage against the symbol the building represents. In the interim, three men have fanned out to search for the captive naval personnel. "Get OUT of my HOUSE!" Ambrosia screams, possibly tearing threads of her vocal chords with the violent pitch behind it. And fires off a couple rounds, the moment the door fails her. A third one pops off into the brief abandonment of the doorway, striking nothing, as she wriggles her left hand around and up the back of her shirt, probing for her wonderfully sharp shank. It's found and slide cautiously out to lay on the floor at her feet. Just in case. Three. Two. One. The fingers count down, offering no verbal warning of when the breach will come, the first commando dives through the doorway, skidding roughly across the floor his carbine held out before him - a silent prayer for his life passing through his mind as he takes his turn to play 'blaster-fodder', it does not aid him, the man catching a blaster bolt in the thigh mid-air, he screams in agony as he lands. The second peels right, diving for a potted plant whose cover seems wholly insufficient to the task of absorbing weapons fire. Its the third of the men who steps into the doorway, stock pressed to his shoulder. A bright blue flash emits from his weapon, the stun bolt striking Ambrosia square in the chest. "Alpha Nine to Home-Base. We've found the prisoners." a message beamed to the Nemesis orbiting high above the planet. "We're releasing them now." Silence on the comm's as a blaster bolt shatters the lock on the makeshift cell in which the dozen men are housed. The voice that responds is not the mission controller. It is deeper, calmer, rings with an aristocratic air. "You are in error, Alpha Nine." "There are no survivors." A moment's silence follows. The commandos exchange looks. Their weapons rise "...yes sir!" It's hard not to look surprised when you're smacked with an overpowering dose of stun power, even if you know it's coming. Feet too slow to avoid it, Ambrosia is now swept OFF those feet, crumpling back, out of range of the holo feed. Her weapon clatters out of her hand upon hitting the marble tile and slides harmlessly away. Her palm blaster also gets betrayed, tunic flopping askew from her waist during the final seizing of her muscles. Quieted at last, the mouthy government official is retired for the evening. Her deadened gaze focuses on nothing but the creamy white of an unforgiving floor her skull has thwacked against, and the slow-spreading trickle of crimson beneath it. "Strike-Alpha to Home-Base." The commando leader broadcasts, the holo-terminal rendered inoperative in a quick burst of blaster bolts, exploding into a burst of charred circuit board, fire and smoke as the commandos gather their wounded, their dead and the unconscious ambassador. "We have the package. Commencing extraction..."